Did I know before it started? No, of course not. How could I? I mean, I
suppose my mother knew about it, and of course my dad did, it being
himself, but they never told me. Well, I guess I understand that. How could
you tell a person something like that? If they had told me, I probably
would have called the nice men in the white jackets to take them away. But
they should have realized that while my father was, well, what he was, that
there was a chance for me.
"Jessi! Jessi, wake up," came an impatient voice next to my bed. I clenched my eyes shut even tighter and attempted to put the blanket over my head. Strong hands grabbed the blanket and whipped it clean off the bed. I cracked an eye to see who this madman was. Oh, just my dad. I giggled at the thought. I turned over, shutting my eyes again. A heavy sigh came from behind me.
"Alright, I didn't want to do this, but you've pushed me to it," he said dramatically. I heard him stand up from the side of the bed and walk to the covered window. "In five seconds, I will open those blinds. Five, four, three..."
"Noooooo!" I interrupted him. I jumped out of bed and threw my arms around him. Then, in a fake pleading voice, I said, "Please, anything but that!" Dad looked at me sternly for a moment, then broke the facade with a broad grin.
"Okay, I won't subject you to such torture," he said dryly, "but get up. It's the first day of school, and you don't want to miss it." Yes, I do, I thought, but stumbled to the bathroom anyway.
After a nice hot shower to wake my brain up, I felt a bit better. But it didn't thaw out that ice cube in my stomach caused by first-day-of-school jitters. I dragged my feet to the kitchen, trying to delay.
"Good morning, hun," came a muffled voice. I peered through my glasses and over the counter to find my mom with a extra-large bag of pancake mix in one arm, cooking utensils in the other, and three cups sticking out of her mouth. I giggled and took the mix.
"Thanks," she breathed after taking the cups out. "I wanted to have breakfast ready before you woke up, but..." she trailed off helplessly. My mother is one of those scatter-brained moms. People who know her, like me, think of her as one of the "It's the thought that counts" kind of people. I smiled and flipped a think-nothing-of-it gesture, taking out the milk and orange juice.
"Hey, sport," said my dad, entering the room. He grinned. "Awake yet?" I grinned back, examining him. My dad was one of New York's top DNA scientists. But his major hobby, almost like a second job, was photography. My mom is a reporter and my dad sells pictures to the newspaper to go with her articles. My mom told me that she was very popular in high school; she has red hair, and is stunningly pretty. Which is why it's so strange that she married my dad. My dad is, how can I put this delicately, a complete nerd to the bone. The only thing he has going for him is that he isn't fat and he doesn't wear glasses. But he talks, acts like, and is a nerd. My parents are pretty cool I guess, at least everyone thinks they are because of my mom's job. I conveniently avoid the subject of my dad's real job, and just talk about his photography, which isn't as dorky.
I thought about what he had said; "sport". I was actually quite the opposite, a scrawny, pale bookworm with glasses. My nose is always buried in a book thicker than my arm, and I don't have a lot of friends. In fact, I only have one close one. She's just as wacky as me, though crazy about theatre instead of literature. She's really into Shakespeare and she speaks with an expansive vocabulary. Which is why I like her. But back to the nickname "sport". It's rather ridiculous if you think about it; I don't play any sports, I sit out every day at P.E. on accout of my asthma. I am not athletic in any way, besides the fact that I am a bit taller than the other girls and I stand up straight, instead of doing the whole question mark posture. I shrugged it of, thinking it was just another dumb dad thing, and went on helping my mom with the pancakes.
"Well, thank you ladies, that was lovely," said my dad after we were all through. He glanced at his watch. "Jessi, I believe if you don't leave right now, you will be late for school. If you want, I can give you a ride?" He raised an eyebrow at me and I bit my lip so I wouldn't smile. Last year, I went through a dumb little phase where I asked him to drop me off around the corner, if I let him give me a ride at all.
"That'd be great, Dad," I replied. Then added, with dignity, "in front of the school if you don't mind." He was still laughing when I left the room to get my backpack.
"Parker, Jessica!" barked Ms. Stanford, my new homeroom teacher. She was no more than five feet tall, slightly tubby, and wore glasses that looked like they came from the 50's.
"Present," I replied, speaking louder than usual, since Ms. Stanford was hard of hearing. She moved on down the list and I leaned over to talk to my best friend, Gwen Fortunato. Well, all right, I'll be honest, her real name is Amanda Bradford, but she changed it because it wasn't theatric enough. I've only known her 4 years, and when I met her she introduce herself as Gwen Fortunato. So, that's who she is. Gwen is for her middle name, Guinevere, and Fortunato is her mother's maiden name. She is Italian- looking, except with green eyes, and her hair color changes every once and a while. For the first day of school, she had her natural black hair, with bright red streaks, bunched up at the back of her head and held with a clip, making it look spiky. She had her bangs parted off the right side of her head, with the bulk of it hanging dramatically over her left eye. She only wore eye make-up, but it was perfectly applied. Her wardrobe is unique and different, and always turns heads. Sometimes she's a bit melodramatic, but she always apologizes and makes up for it. And it's exciting to see what plan she'll come up with next to get into the movies for free. We are so different, sometimes I wonder why we're even friends. But since she doesn't show any signs of dumping me and moving on to better things, and I always have fun with her, I don't say anything. I have come to the conclusion that we complement each other. I tone her down and she puts some excitement into my life.
"So, what's the deal with the first play of the year? Did you get your request yet?" I asked Gwen, not whispering, but talking quietly, since Ms. Stanford wasn't deaf. She nodded.
"I've been suggesting they do Hamlet since freshman year, and they finally decided we're mature enough," she replied, surveying the class.
"So, don't keep me in the dark, who are you trying out for?" I asked. She grinned at me.
"Well, before, I wanted to be Ophelia," she began. She paused and looked seriously at me for measure. I kicked her lightly under the desk. She broke into another grin. "I think Hamlet's mother would be a more challenging role for me, though. More mature."
"Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "You definitely need to be more mature." She narrowed her eyes at me, but smiled anyway. She started to say something I knew would be teasing, but was interrupted by Ms. Stanford.
"All right, everyone," she said, a bit to loud. "Announcements! There was a fire in the gym so-" but broke off and scowled at the doorway. I glanced in that direction, and sat up straight.
"Nicholas MacKenzie," she boomed. "You are late, mister. Take a seat, if it suits your fancy." He strolled over to an empty seat next to a few of his friends snickering and congratulating each other on being of the male gender. Nick MacKenzie was the most gorgeous guy I had ever seen. Black hair, grey eyes, olive skin; my dream boy. But I never had a chance. He was one of the "special people", the preps, the popular group. I was so unknown that no one even had a chance to label me. I slouched in my chair and turned back to Gwen. She was looking at me sympathetically. I frowned, and bit down the ton of cynical remarks rising to the surface. I always thought, never spoke.
"Stop," I said, attempting to smile. "Don't feel sorry for me. I'm a big girl, I don't need anyone." She raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. The bell rang; I gathered my things and dragged myself to History class.
I ended up having Algebra 2 and P.E. with Nick. During P.E., I sat in the bleachers, envious of everyone climbing the rope and playing three-on-three basketball. I had never done that stuff. Asthma was like a high brick wall that I slammed into every time I tried to run or do anything athletic, while I saw everyone else leap over it with ease. I glared at Katelyn Faith in the corner, playing volleyball and complaining about a chipped nail. How could she complain? About anything? Didn't she realize how good she had it? It was almost sickening, the way that crowd took themselves for granted. Suddenly, I wanted to join the track team, the basketball team, anything, and prove that I could be better than them. My spirits fell. What was I thinking. I could never do any of that stuff. I grit my teeth together, resenting everything about me. I barely noticed my breathing getting more shallow, more rapid every second. I was being smothered. I looked around, saw Katelyn and her friends looking at me. When they saw me looking at them, they looked away, giggling. I saw Katelyn say something to the other girls, and they burst into too loud giggles and squeals. I had to get out of there. I stood up and ran to the door, dry-eyed. I never cried in public. Which was why I had to get to the bathroom. I staggered into the hall and headed in that direction, when I realized I was having an asthma attack. I changed my course, wheezing, so that now I was going toward the nurse's office, where my emergency inhaler was kept.
"Were you trying to do P.E. again?" demanded Mrs. FitzPatrick, the school nurse/receptionist.
"No, Mrs. Fitz, " I replied, hiding a smile. The bell rang for the end of P.E., and I hopped off the table in the nurses office. "Just a little first- day-of-school stress. I'm fine now."
"Oh, all right," she said, glancing at the line of students at the door, already "sick" of school. I crept out the door as a freshman complained innocently of stomach trouble, and headed to fourth period.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the the first day of school. I shifted into my backpack and met Gwen at our lockers. Homeroom was the only class I had with her, but we had managed to get lockers side by side.
"So, how was the rest of your day?" she asked, a malicious glint in her eyes. I smiled wryly at her, knowing what she really meant was "Did you have any other classes with lover boy?"
"It was fine," I replied. She elbowed me. "And, two, besides homeroom, if you must know," I added. She sqealed, attracting startled looks from passing students. She ignored them and grinned at me gleefully.
"So, maybe this is your year!" she whispered, as if it were gossip everyone wanted to know. I gave her a Look.
"Gwen, I highly doubt it, and you know that's what you think too," I said, scowling. She made an annoyed sound and rolled her eyes, as though she knew there was no hope for me.
"Jessi, Jessi, Jessi," she started, shaking her head. I sighed heavily, but she ignored me and went on with her lecture. "That's your problem! You are way too pessimistic. You need to be confident, outgoing. And you need to build your self-esteem a little," she added. You looked me up and down, and I squirmed uncomfortably. "Maybe you need a make-over." I glared at her, remembering the last time Gwen Fortunato tried to give me a make-over, and thought of the many sardonic things I could say in response to that, but of course said nothing. I looked horrible in blue eyeshadow and red lipstick. Apparently, Gwen remembered too, because she made a face. "Or we could just work on the self-confidence thing," she said reassuringly. With timing that would be funny if I wasn't in a bad mood, Nick MacKenzie walked by. I froze and clamped my mouth shut, gritting my teeth together. He disappeared through the exit at the end of the hall and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I turned to Gwen and found her looking at me with pity. I shut my locker and shoved my books into my bag. I turned to leave and bumped into Katelyn Faith, the prettiest and preppiest girl in school.
"Watch it, freak!" she said rudely, and pushed pashed me. I made a face at her back and grit my teeth to stop the sarcasm fighting it's way to the surface. If I said half the things that went through my brain, I thought, I would get into so much trouble. Katelyn was, obviously, going out with Nick MacKenzie. Of course. I had learned over the years that perfect people travel in packs. Sharing their beauty, silently excluding the rest of the world. I turned back to Gwen, who was groping for something sympathetic to say.
I glanced at the door that Nick had left through. "Come on, my dad's waiting," I muttered, and set off in the opposite direction.
"Jessi! Jessi, wake up," came an impatient voice next to my bed. I clenched my eyes shut even tighter and attempted to put the blanket over my head. Strong hands grabbed the blanket and whipped it clean off the bed. I cracked an eye to see who this madman was. Oh, just my dad. I giggled at the thought. I turned over, shutting my eyes again. A heavy sigh came from behind me.
"Alright, I didn't want to do this, but you've pushed me to it," he said dramatically. I heard him stand up from the side of the bed and walk to the covered window. "In five seconds, I will open those blinds. Five, four, three..."
"Noooooo!" I interrupted him. I jumped out of bed and threw my arms around him. Then, in a fake pleading voice, I said, "Please, anything but that!" Dad looked at me sternly for a moment, then broke the facade with a broad grin.
"Okay, I won't subject you to such torture," he said dryly, "but get up. It's the first day of school, and you don't want to miss it." Yes, I do, I thought, but stumbled to the bathroom anyway.
After a nice hot shower to wake my brain up, I felt a bit better. But it didn't thaw out that ice cube in my stomach caused by first-day-of-school jitters. I dragged my feet to the kitchen, trying to delay.
"Good morning, hun," came a muffled voice. I peered through my glasses and over the counter to find my mom with a extra-large bag of pancake mix in one arm, cooking utensils in the other, and three cups sticking out of her mouth. I giggled and took the mix.
"Thanks," she breathed after taking the cups out. "I wanted to have breakfast ready before you woke up, but..." she trailed off helplessly. My mother is one of those scatter-brained moms. People who know her, like me, think of her as one of the "It's the thought that counts" kind of people. I smiled and flipped a think-nothing-of-it gesture, taking out the milk and orange juice.
"Hey, sport," said my dad, entering the room. He grinned. "Awake yet?" I grinned back, examining him. My dad was one of New York's top DNA scientists. But his major hobby, almost like a second job, was photography. My mom is a reporter and my dad sells pictures to the newspaper to go with her articles. My mom told me that she was very popular in high school; she has red hair, and is stunningly pretty. Which is why it's so strange that she married my dad. My dad is, how can I put this delicately, a complete nerd to the bone. The only thing he has going for him is that he isn't fat and he doesn't wear glasses. But he talks, acts like, and is a nerd. My parents are pretty cool I guess, at least everyone thinks they are because of my mom's job. I conveniently avoid the subject of my dad's real job, and just talk about his photography, which isn't as dorky.
I thought about what he had said; "sport". I was actually quite the opposite, a scrawny, pale bookworm with glasses. My nose is always buried in a book thicker than my arm, and I don't have a lot of friends. In fact, I only have one close one. She's just as wacky as me, though crazy about theatre instead of literature. She's really into Shakespeare and she speaks with an expansive vocabulary. Which is why I like her. But back to the nickname "sport". It's rather ridiculous if you think about it; I don't play any sports, I sit out every day at P.E. on accout of my asthma. I am not athletic in any way, besides the fact that I am a bit taller than the other girls and I stand up straight, instead of doing the whole question mark posture. I shrugged it of, thinking it was just another dumb dad thing, and went on helping my mom with the pancakes.
"Well, thank you ladies, that was lovely," said my dad after we were all through. He glanced at his watch. "Jessi, I believe if you don't leave right now, you will be late for school. If you want, I can give you a ride?" He raised an eyebrow at me and I bit my lip so I wouldn't smile. Last year, I went through a dumb little phase where I asked him to drop me off around the corner, if I let him give me a ride at all.
"That'd be great, Dad," I replied. Then added, with dignity, "in front of the school if you don't mind." He was still laughing when I left the room to get my backpack.
"Parker, Jessica!" barked Ms. Stanford, my new homeroom teacher. She was no more than five feet tall, slightly tubby, and wore glasses that looked like they came from the 50's.
"Present," I replied, speaking louder than usual, since Ms. Stanford was hard of hearing. She moved on down the list and I leaned over to talk to my best friend, Gwen Fortunato. Well, all right, I'll be honest, her real name is Amanda Bradford, but she changed it because it wasn't theatric enough. I've only known her 4 years, and when I met her she introduce herself as Gwen Fortunato. So, that's who she is. Gwen is for her middle name, Guinevere, and Fortunato is her mother's maiden name. She is Italian- looking, except with green eyes, and her hair color changes every once and a while. For the first day of school, she had her natural black hair, with bright red streaks, bunched up at the back of her head and held with a clip, making it look spiky. She had her bangs parted off the right side of her head, with the bulk of it hanging dramatically over her left eye. She only wore eye make-up, but it was perfectly applied. Her wardrobe is unique and different, and always turns heads. Sometimes she's a bit melodramatic, but she always apologizes and makes up for it. And it's exciting to see what plan she'll come up with next to get into the movies for free. We are so different, sometimes I wonder why we're even friends. But since she doesn't show any signs of dumping me and moving on to better things, and I always have fun with her, I don't say anything. I have come to the conclusion that we complement each other. I tone her down and she puts some excitement into my life.
"So, what's the deal with the first play of the year? Did you get your request yet?" I asked Gwen, not whispering, but talking quietly, since Ms. Stanford wasn't deaf. She nodded.
"I've been suggesting they do Hamlet since freshman year, and they finally decided we're mature enough," she replied, surveying the class.
"So, don't keep me in the dark, who are you trying out for?" I asked. She grinned at me.
"Well, before, I wanted to be Ophelia," she began. She paused and looked seriously at me for measure. I kicked her lightly under the desk. She broke into another grin. "I think Hamlet's mother would be a more challenging role for me, though. More mature."
"Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "You definitely need to be more mature." She narrowed her eyes at me, but smiled anyway. She started to say something I knew would be teasing, but was interrupted by Ms. Stanford.
"All right, everyone," she said, a bit to loud. "Announcements! There was a fire in the gym so-" but broke off and scowled at the doorway. I glanced in that direction, and sat up straight.
"Nicholas MacKenzie," she boomed. "You are late, mister. Take a seat, if it suits your fancy." He strolled over to an empty seat next to a few of his friends snickering and congratulating each other on being of the male gender. Nick MacKenzie was the most gorgeous guy I had ever seen. Black hair, grey eyes, olive skin; my dream boy. But I never had a chance. He was one of the "special people", the preps, the popular group. I was so unknown that no one even had a chance to label me. I slouched in my chair and turned back to Gwen. She was looking at me sympathetically. I frowned, and bit down the ton of cynical remarks rising to the surface. I always thought, never spoke.
"Stop," I said, attempting to smile. "Don't feel sorry for me. I'm a big girl, I don't need anyone." She raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. The bell rang; I gathered my things and dragged myself to History class.
I ended up having Algebra 2 and P.E. with Nick. During P.E., I sat in the bleachers, envious of everyone climbing the rope and playing three-on-three basketball. I had never done that stuff. Asthma was like a high brick wall that I slammed into every time I tried to run or do anything athletic, while I saw everyone else leap over it with ease. I glared at Katelyn Faith in the corner, playing volleyball and complaining about a chipped nail. How could she complain? About anything? Didn't she realize how good she had it? It was almost sickening, the way that crowd took themselves for granted. Suddenly, I wanted to join the track team, the basketball team, anything, and prove that I could be better than them. My spirits fell. What was I thinking. I could never do any of that stuff. I grit my teeth together, resenting everything about me. I barely noticed my breathing getting more shallow, more rapid every second. I was being smothered. I looked around, saw Katelyn and her friends looking at me. When they saw me looking at them, they looked away, giggling. I saw Katelyn say something to the other girls, and they burst into too loud giggles and squeals. I had to get out of there. I stood up and ran to the door, dry-eyed. I never cried in public. Which was why I had to get to the bathroom. I staggered into the hall and headed in that direction, when I realized I was having an asthma attack. I changed my course, wheezing, so that now I was going toward the nurse's office, where my emergency inhaler was kept.
"Were you trying to do P.E. again?" demanded Mrs. FitzPatrick, the school nurse/receptionist.
"No, Mrs. Fitz, " I replied, hiding a smile. The bell rang for the end of P.E., and I hopped off the table in the nurses office. "Just a little first- day-of-school stress. I'm fine now."
"Oh, all right," she said, glancing at the line of students at the door, already "sick" of school. I crept out the door as a freshman complained innocently of stomach trouble, and headed to fourth period.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the the first day of school. I shifted into my backpack and met Gwen at our lockers. Homeroom was the only class I had with her, but we had managed to get lockers side by side.
"So, how was the rest of your day?" she asked, a malicious glint in her eyes. I smiled wryly at her, knowing what she really meant was "Did you have any other classes with lover boy?"
"It was fine," I replied. She elbowed me. "And, two, besides homeroom, if you must know," I added. She sqealed, attracting startled looks from passing students. She ignored them and grinned at me gleefully.
"So, maybe this is your year!" she whispered, as if it were gossip everyone wanted to know. I gave her a Look.
"Gwen, I highly doubt it, and you know that's what you think too," I said, scowling. She made an annoyed sound and rolled her eyes, as though she knew there was no hope for me.
"Jessi, Jessi, Jessi," she started, shaking her head. I sighed heavily, but she ignored me and went on with her lecture. "That's your problem! You are way too pessimistic. You need to be confident, outgoing. And you need to build your self-esteem a little," she added. You looked me up and down, and I squirmed uncomfortably. "Maybe you need a make-over." I glared at her, remembering the last time Gwen Fortunato tried to give me a make-over, and thought of the many sardonic things I could say in response to that, but of course said nothing. I looked horrible in blue eyeshadow and red lipstick. Apparently, Gwen remembered too, because she made a face. "Or we could just work on the self-confidence thing," she said reassuringly. With timing that would be funny if I wasn't in a bad mood, Nick MacKenzie walked by. I froze and clamped my mouth shut, gritting my teeth together. He disappeared through the exit at the end of the hall and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I turned to Gwen and found her looking at me with pity. I shut my locker and shoved my books into my bag. I turned to leave and bumped into Katelyn Faith, the prettiest and preppiest girl in school.
"Watch it, freak!" she said rudely, and pushed pashed me. I made a face at her back and grit my teeth to stop the sarcasm fighting it's way to the surface. If I said half the things that went through my brain, I thought, I would get into so much trouble. Katelyn was, obviously, going out with Nick MacKenzie. Of course. I had learned over the years that perfect people travel in packs. Sharing their beauty, silently excluding the rest of the world. I turned back to Gwen, who was groping for something sympathetic to say.
I glanced at the door that Nick had left through. "Come on, my dad's waiting," I muttered, and set off in the opposite direction.